use it.
The van was parked about one hundred metres away from a converted warehouse in which Anderson was supposed to have a small flat. Through the one-way windows which allowed them to look out and no one else to peer in, they could see anyone entering or leaving the flats.
Four other officers were covering the rear. They were hidden behind a wall and Henry was extremely sorry for them. They must have been really suffering in the cold. The outside temperature was below freezing, but at least it wasn’t snowing or raining. Hardly a comfort, though.
The remainder of the firearms team were parked in an unmarked van, tucked away in a mill yard about a quarter of a mile away down the quayside.
It was assumed with reasonable certitude that Anderson was not at home. The surrounding streets had been scoured for any signs of his Shogun.
Henry hoped that if he did turn up, he wouldn’t drive in by the route which would take him past the mill yard. The firearms vehicle, albeit unmarked, had a definite aura of ‘police’ about it. Any self-respecting villain would clock it immediately.
There were two other routes to the flat. One from the main road which ran through Lancaster, the other around the perimeter of a nearby housing estate. Observers in unmarked cars were parked unobtrusively on these routes, watching for Anderson’s arrival.
Henry was under no illusions about their prey.
Anderson was a very violent, professional criminal. He was very shrewd and ultra-suspicious. It wouldn’t surprise Henry if he spent some time reconnoitring the area, checking for any signs of police activity, before he thought it safe enough to stop. If anything seemed out of place or spooked him, he would bolt and they would never catch him. Henry hoped the man wanted to get home desperately — for a shit, or something — anything which would make him less switched on.
The fact that the surveillance van was parked in such an exposed position, in eyeball contact with the front of the warehouse, didn’t help matters. Because of the geography of the location — right on the riverside — there was nowhere more subtle to position it. Fortunately it looked a pretty genuine electrician’s van and didn’t stand out like too much of a sore thumb.
Henry glanced at his companions.
Dave and Jack, the two firearms officers, sat in thoughtful silence with bored expressions on their faces. They were dressed in dark blue overalls, body armour, ballistic caps and black lace-up boots. Each had an HK MP5 across his chest and a pistol in a holder around the waist.
‘ OK?’ Henry enquired.
They both nodded, said nothing. Strong silent types.
Henry looked at the far more appealing Siobhan Robson, his partner.
She was in tight jeans, a tracksuit top and a fleece-lined zip-up jacket. Her hair had been pulled into a pony tail and tucked under a dark green woollen cap. With her hair thus taken up, her ears were going blue with cold. It didn’t stop them being nice ears, though. She stuck the tip of her tongue out at Henry and smiled with her eyes.
He responded with a quick grin, then raised his eyebrows and looked out through the window, mulling over the plan of action if Anderson turned up. It had been decided that he should be allowed to park his car, get out and walk to the front entrance of the warehouse. There he had to key a number into a pad to gain entry to the building. The teams should hit him just as he was doing this, grab him, flatten him, cuff him, search him, arrest him.
At least that was the plan. Everyone seemed to understand it and that in itself was a bonus.
He shivered and clamped his teeth together to stop them making a clattering noise like badly adjusted tappets.
Of course there was a good chance Anderson would never turn up. Ever.
It was five past six.
At which time John Rider was climbing into bed, having spent the night at the scene of the fire. He had made a comprehensive statement to the police, being as honest with them as he thought necessary. Yes, he had recently fallen out big-style with someone, but he wasn’t about to tell them that. What had happened was beyond the ability of the law to deal with. It was for him to sort out now, once and for all. To put an end to this madness with perhaps one more act of madness.
Munrow would have to die.
There was no other option now, he believed.
Isa had been with him throughout the night, watching him closely, trying to judge his mood, guess his intentions. But Rider was good. He showed nothing, kept a straight face, kept his anger controlled. Turned inside himself.
They had returned to the basement flat a little before six, both gritty and grubby from the smoke. They shared a shower in which they soaped each other down and washed each other’s hair. Shortly after six they climbed into bed and Rider made ferocious love to Isa in a way which brought her to a wonderful multi-orgasm, but which also left her feeling slightly afraid.
Afterwards, before they fell asleep, Isa asked him the big question.
‘ Are you going to kill him?’
A terrible, faraway look came into Rider’s eyes which made Isa’s skin crawl.
He nodded, rolled over and within minutes was asleep.
Isa buried her face in the pillow, unable to stop the tears.
Four hours later, Henry and his team in the van were beginning to warm up a little. A weak-willed winter sun poked its reluctant nose from behind the grey clouds and was making a little difference to the temperature inside the van. It had risen to freezing point, but it was better than nothing. Several cups of shared coffee from flasks were also having a positive effect on internal body temperatures. Unfortunately the liquid was having an adverse effect on the bladders of two of them, Henry being one. He was feeling an increasingly urgent need to pay a visit to a toilet, but not the chemical one fitted in the van, watched by the others.
It was becoming a predicament, one which would have to be addressed sooner rather than later.
Henry crossed his legs and gave Siobhan a lopsided grin which seemed to convey his inner torment.
To be honest, Karl Donaldson did not really expect to hear from George Santana again. So when he answered the phone he was amazed to hear the crackle of static that meant long distance, and the faint sound of Santana’s voice at the far end.
‘ I have some news for you, Agent Donaldson,’ Santana revealed after the opening exchange of pleasantries.
Donaldson waited to be told.
‘ We have been keeping your man under observation and there is nothing to report on that front,’ the Madeiran detective said. ‘However, we have learned that he has booked a seat on a charter-plane flight to the United Kingdom.’
‘ When and where does it land?’ He expected to be told Heathrow, next Monday… something like that.
‘ Around four o’clock this afternoon. Manchester.’
Donaldson closed his eyes despairingly. He scribbled down the flight details as Santana said them, thanked him and hung up.
Fucking Manchester in six hours!
Not impossible — but pretty godammed difficult to arrange for someone to greet him and drop onto his tail.
He fleetingly considered ringing Henry Christie and telling him to haul ass to the airport — like they’d done once on a previous job. Then he remembered Henry was now on local CID in Blackpool and didn’t have the roving commission that he’d had when on the Regional Crime Squad. He couldn’t come and go as he pleased any more.
It left Donaldson with a dilemma. Should he go to Manchester himself and risk being spotted by Hamilton, or should he arrange for the cops in Manchester to put a surveillance team on him?
